


On Her Orders

by yunmin



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Light Dom/sub, Older Woman/Younger Man, Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex, consent negotiations, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-16 22:40:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12352026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yunmin/pseuds/yunmin
Summary: “So, this is me, saying that I, Wedge Antilles, formerly of Corellia and now an exile attached to the Alliance to Restore the Republic, swear that on this day I am of sound mind and judgement, and that I absolutely would like to have sex with the Chancellor of said Alliance to Restore the Republic, and well if she wants to boss me about a little that would be just grand.”Wedge gets into trouble. Mon has to punish him. To complicate matters further, there is definitely something between them, but Mon isn't sure whether this is a line she can cross.





	On Her Orders

**Author's Note:**

> This is the result of me writing my request letter for the Star Wars Rare Pairs exchange, cottoning onto something that I really liked about something I wanted to request and then going ‘oh god wait I could just right it myself’
> 
> I wrote it myself. Oops. (If my lovely person who is trying to write me something in said exchange is reading this, know that I am of the ‘two things is better than one’ school of thought.)
> 
> With a thousand thanks to [@harusamemosuke](www.harusamemosuke.tumblr.com), who put up with me sending this to her bit by bit and talking it through with me, it would not have happened without you.
> 
> This is also shameless shameless smut and if anyone is somehow not here for that, probably best to turn back now.

Mon sighs. Antilles is standing ram rod straight, helmet clutched in his hands. He knows exactly what he’s done. The guilt is written all over his face. He disobeyed orders – even if it did save his entire squadron – but it’s enough to write him up. He endangered a whole starship with his actions today. There was a fleet of Admirals waiting to sink their hooks into him, demote him, take command away from him; all it had taken was a word from her and they’d acquiesced, leaving him to her hands.

And now she has to deal with him.

He hasn’t moved. A foot inside the door is where he stands, even as Mon had bypassed her desk and gone for the futon that takes up a wall in her office. She takes a deep breath. He frustrates her – in more ways than one, and she’s already partially regretting her decision to take charge of dealing with him, because things are already complicated enough. “At ease, soldier,” she says, keeping her voice soft. Wedge blinks, but he stays at attention. “Wedge—” It comes out, already sounding like a plea.

It hits home, because Wedge loosens. He shakes his head, then looks around the room for somewhere to place his helmet down. He puts in on top of a filing cabinet, then continues to stand, hands crossed behind his back. “Chancellor.” His head is held high. He won’t look at her.

“I think you already know what I’m going to say about your actions today.” Wedge’s mouth tightens; he does. “They were rash and reckless and they could have gotten a lot of people killed, and part of being a Commander is looking at a wider picture than your own squadron. I appreciate your desire to keep your own people safe, but that is not all that the Alliance demands of you.”

“I never wanted this rank,” Wedge replies, more than a little bitter.

_Do you think I wanted the Chancellorship?_ is what Mon almost asks, but she thinks better of it; she has no desire to discuss that with him, not now. “You know as well as I do you accepted it to keep Rogue Squadron together; your demotion would break up that team.”

That gets through to him. It reminds him why he has taken this path. “Yes ma’am.” He shuffles his feet, almost nervous. “What disciplinary action have I earned this time?”

Mon regards him; his hair is a little damp, pushed back from his face – he must have swept it up earlier, after he’d lost his helmet, in the heat of the argument that she’d interrupted in the hangar. It looks different; he looks a little older, she thinks, like this, a little more charming and worldly. But Mon likes the way he usually looks. A little too much, probably. Wedge is objectively a very attractive man – Mon has heard her aides discussing it, on occasion, the men of Rogue Squadron admired as much as eye candy as they are for their own heroics.

Force knows what they would say if they knew Mon had had sex with Wedge.

“A week of extra duty shifts,” Mon answers, because that is _easy_ , a standard punishment. “Not _flying_ ,” she clarifies, because he doesn’t look like double-shifts would be a punishment. “KP or maintenance. I will pass your details on and they’ll decide where you are needed most.” He nods, taking it on the chin. “I don’t want to put this on your record, but if I hear of another incident like this inside six months, it _will_ go on your record. You’ve already damaged your chances of that brevet promotion becoming a full one. You lose that, the Rogues will almost certainly be disbanded; there is no one else in the squadron anywhere near ready for command, and no one else in the entirety of Starfighter Command will take you on as a single unit.”

Wedge doesn’t care about his own fate; he’ll take the extra duties without a hint of complaining. But he cares about his people – it’s what got him into this mess – so anything he does that will make their lives a misery will make him stop and wonder.

“Of course, ma’am.” He nods. “Is there anything else I can do for you, ma’am?”

Force, the look on his face! Mon takes a shaky breath, knowing in that moment she could ask him to do _anything_ and he’d do it, without a second thought, in a heartbeat, he’d walk into hell on her instructions, on her _orders_. “Get out of here,” she says; he looks taken aback. There’s still _want_ written all over his face, like he wants to please her, somehow, any way possible. He’d get down on his knees right there for her, let her use him in any way she wanted. Mon doesn’t want that power, not when she’s called him in to punish him. It crosses a line she has no wish to cross. “Get _out_ , Commander Antilles. Your extra shifts will start tomorrow, I suggest you spend the rest of the day thinking about exactly why you did what you did.”

“Yes ma’am.” Wedge is meek as he picks his helmet up, and turns from her room. He doesn’t argue with her. Mon can’t tell whether she’s glad or not – she wanted him gone, before she lost control, but there’s a part of her that wants him to stay, to fight her on this, to spit fire back at her until she cows him into submission, until he is _hers_ to do what she likes with. He is gone from her office before she can say anything to change her mind.

She takes a minute to collect herself; Wedge leaves her frustrated, and barely in control. But she is the Chancellor, and she can spare him only minutes – another reason why this thing is fucked up, and she really shouldn’t want to continue it – before moving on, and getting back to what she _should_ be doing.

.

It’s getting late in the evening, when there’s a knock on her door; brief, hesitant. Mon has no more scheduled meetings for the day, so it can’t be anything particularly important. Her aides have stronger knocks than that, and would have no issues barging in if it was an emergency. So it must be someone else. “Come in,” she says, pushing a button on her desk to release the lock on the door.

She shouldn’t be surprised when Wedge Antilles appears, looking a little sheepish. He’s out of his flightsuit, dressed casually; his pale brown trousers and black top could be regulation, though Mon thinks the top clings a little to close to his skin, is a little too soft to be anything Rebellion issued. He looks good. In his hands is a datapad.

“I thought I told you—”

“—to get out of here, I know, it’s just…” Wedge ruffles the back of his hair, looking abashed. “I’ve got something I want to say, and I think you should probably hear it? Maybe? If you aren’t busy doing things, I know you have a lot on.”

He looks ready to walk back out the way he came and Mon wants to hear what he has to say. So she stands, pushing aside what is on her desk – there’s nothing that she has to finish today, it can wait until the morning – and says: “It’s fine, Commander. Come, sit with me?” She gestures at the sofa that Wedge refused to sit on earlier. This time, he acquiesces, and they sit down together, side by side. “What is it you wanted to talk about?”

“Ummm.” Wedge scrambles, like he hadn’t expected to get past the door. “So look, I don’t think we’ve got our wires crossed or anything but I think I could make things a little clearer? Maybe? Because I think we were on the edge of something earlier, and I think you won’t start that conversation because you’ve got ideas in your head about you being my commanding officer – which is kinda bullshit, because I know you’re the head of the Alliance and I would do anything for you if you asked, but you aren’t directly in my chain of command, not _really_ – so, I just wanted to say that it’s _bullshit._ ” Mon raises her eyebrows; pilots are hardly known for their eloquence after all. “I am a consenting adult in all of this and I know that my consent is, yeah, sorta slightly under question because of that whole you-could-order-me-to-my-death thing, but I don’t actually consider that a problem, and I want you to know that I am _choosing_ this thing and I want you to order me about, ma’am, that’s the fun of it, and oh shit where’s it gone—” He pushes buttons on his datapad until he’s brought something up and thrusts it at her. “Look, I wrote some stuff and I signed it, if you want that sort of proof?”

Mon glances at the datapad he’s shoved into her hands, and he’s not wrong; it’s a consent form of sorts, though if she showed this to anyone else she’d have a hell of a time explaining it. But, at the end, sure enough, is his signature.

“I know it’s not a lot, but it’s something, and I guess if we want to carry this on – and I, I really would like to carry this on, ma’am – then you might need some reassuring that you haven’t talked or ordered me into doing something that I’m uncomfortable with, and that if you did tell me to do something that I didn’t want to do – well I won’t lie and tell you I wouldn’t do it, but I’d give you a hell of a lot of shit for it and you’d definitely know. So, this is me, saying that I, Wedge Antilles, formerly of Corellia and now an exile attached to the Alliance to Restore the Republic, swear that on this day I am of sound mind and judgement, and that I absolutely would like to have sex with the Chancellor of said Alliance to Restore the Republic, and well if she wants to boss me about a little that would be just _grand._ ”

Mon laughs.

She can’t help it, he sounds so ridiculous. She doesn’t laugh much these days and the antics of this pilot have sent her into near hysterics, because he’s absurd, but also _so_ well meaning, delightful in his care to try and make her okay with this, and he is giving her so much and on top of that, he can do what almost no one else can: make her laugh.

And he just lets her do it, without questioning her sanity, or anything else; he just sits there on the sofa and looks so utterly sincere about the entire thing. So sincere. There’s something about him that is completely endearing, it’s why she picked him when honestly, she could have had her pick of any sentient in the damn Rebellion, he’s the one she _wants_. And so she gives into it.

It doesn’t take much to lean across the sofa and use her hands to pull his face up to meet hers in a kiss. If surprised at the sudden change of events, he doesn’t show it; he leans forward and moves with her. He keeps his hands to himself – he’ll do that until she tells him where to put them, at which point he’ll make exceedingly good use of them, if past experience is anything to go by – but his mouth is enough, absolutely enough, and this is simple and easy just to kiss a man she likes, forget for just a moment that she does lead that damn Alliance.

“That’s more like it, ma’am,” Wedge says, when she draws back, drops her hold on him because she hadn’t meant to kiss him, not whilst they still have things to work out.

“You say that you’ll do what I say, Commander, how about we drop the ma’am?”

Wedge tilts his head, a little quizzical. “If you really want, Chancellor.” She responds with a look, but she guesses she used his title, so it’s only fair. “Between you and me, I think you like being called ma’am though.”

Mon huffs. It isn’t fair that he can read her this well. Because she does, in his voice, when he’s looking up at her with those dark eyes, patiently waiting for instructions for what to do next. “Alright,” she agrees with a smile, her eyes twinkling back at him. “You can have that. But please, drop the Chancellor.”

“Whatever you say, ma’am.”

That smile of his will be the _death_ of her; he means it, absolutely. He’s placing a lot of power into her hands, but he is aware of that – aware enough that Mon can take it. With only a hint of guilt. “You’re incorrigible.” He grins wider. “Okay. I accept that you do – or at least you think you do – want this.” For reasons better know only to him, because Mon can’t think of them, honestly. “Ground rules; you will talk back if I ask you to do _anything_ you’re uncomfortable with.” Mon doesn’t have a tremendous amount of experience in this nature of things, but she’s sure that there’s something – safe words. That’s it. “Say ‘Corellia’ at any time and I will stop. I want you to use that, okay?” He nods, and Mon can’t quite tell if he’s being obedient or if he understands and she hopes it’s the latter – or both. “What happens here doesn’t carry to outside; if you try and use this to carry favour than force help us all, and I cannot show you an ounce of favouritism; also what happened earlier today can’t happen again – both in the fact that I shouldn’t have taken charge in your punishment, and you can’t try and blur those lines. If we are dealing with each other on those terms we leave it there; this has to come after it.”

“Of course, Mon.” The use of her first name, in Wedge’s soft voice, startles her. But she needs it. If he’d said ma’am, or used her title, she’d still be uncertain about his ability to tell her no, or his understanding of the rules she’s just set out. “But now, can I kiss you and take you to bed?”

“If you can find one, then yes, that would be an excellent idea, or maybe you should just _come here_.” The last two words are imbued with the sort of tone that has, in the past, made Wedge go weak at the knees; it has a similar effect here. He surges forward ends up half in her lap, but his mouth ends up on hers which is the only important thing. He kisses her with no small hint of desperation – it’s a revelation to be _wanted_ in this way. He’s almost clumsy in his eagerness, sprawled over her, but Mon doesn’t mind. She shifts, so he can settle into a gap between her legs, which makes things much more comfortable. One of his hands is placed on her knee – the other is supporting his weight, so she won’t move that one quite yet, not that the idea of Wedge spiralled out on top of her doesn’t have it’s appeal. She takes it, bringing it up to run along her thigh, and it doesn’t take him long to get the idea.

He continues, running a path up. He crosses her hip, round the soft and slight curve of her waist, up to the swell of her breast. He lingers there for a moment. Even through the layers of underclothes and her dress, Mon can feel his hand, fingers brushing over her skin, and she can’t help the small inhale of breath as he brushes over a nipple. Satisfied, he continues, fingers dancing across her sternum and finally to the exposed skin at the top of her collar. His fingers are rough, but warm and inviting, happy to explore. A thumb brushes over her jaw, tilting her head slightly so Wedge can kiss her better, deeper, slotting his mouth against hers and sliding his hand round the back of her neck to keep her close.

He’s a weight against her, firm and solid and with a presence that Mon _likes_ in a whole lot of ways. She brings her own hands up; one slides under the hem of Wedge’s shirt, the other clutches at it. It’s soft; her observation was right, this is no Rebellion issued item. She likes that. He dressed up to come and see her; that makes her feel special. With a brush of her hand against the skin of Wedge’s stomach, she brings him to a halt, eliciting a gasp out of him. “Ma’am,” he says, pressing a kiss to the underside of her jaw. She can feel a slight rasp of stubble grazing her skin, just enough to be pleasant. “What would you like today, ma’am?” A kiss is planted beneath her ear, and she feels his hand brush through the back of her hair. “Or are you going to let me pick and guess what would please you?”

Now, there’s a thought, and Mon files it away for later use; she’d like to see what Wedge could do, left to his own devices, what choices he would make to try and please her. But he did say he wanted to be bossed about, and whilst Mon is still working out exactly how to do that – last time she’d sort of accidentally ordered him to get on his knees and he’d done so with wild abandon, pushing her back against the nearest surface and eating her out until she’d come to one of the most intense orgasms of her life and well, that was one of the reasons they were here now.

“I think you should stick to doing what I say,” Mon says, and Wedge nods, pleased with that idea. She pulls back, disentangling her hands from him, and his from her. She looks at him. His gaze is locked on her, tracing her every move. It’s intoxicating. She could make him do anything, and he’d do it, gladly. She just has to pick what she wants. She knows from experience just how good his mouth and fingers are, and would happily take a repeat performance of either – as would he, she is sure. But tonight there is a longing; something in her stomach has tightened and the want is encompassing and Mon knows she wants to finish the night with him inside her, somehow.

And whilst her office is plenty fun, and the desk and sofa are excellent props to be pushed back against, if that is Mon’s goal than she thinks she better move them sooner rather than later.

She grips around Wedge’s wrist to pull him to his feet, and then keeps her grip there because she sees how his eyes widen when she has him in a hold like that. “Come with me,” she says, and she leads him round the back of her office to a door, visible but concealed against any casual glances, that leads to her private sleeping quarters. Mon has only one rule for herself; where she sleeps is hers, and she doesn’t invite people inside or even let them see, but… Wedge is Wedge, so she will let him in.

The room is simple, clean and white, but the bed is comfy and covered in as many blankets and pillows as Mon has managed to gather and bring between Rebellion bases. It’s a refuge against the outside world, against everything that lies outside. “You’ve been holding out on me, ma’am,” Wedge says, taking it all in. “Where was all this last time?”

“And here I thought you liked taking me against my desk,” Mon comments.

Another smile, and if Mon’s not mistaken his cheeks are flushed. “Well, I did – and I’d do it again, anytime, for the record, in case you want to hit me up for a repeat experience – but, y’know, some things are more comfortable in a bed.”

“Well then, I rather think you should get in it.”

Wedge takes immediately to this idea, bending over to unfasten his boots. He does so in such a way that the view of his ass that Mon gets must be intentional, but it is _nice_ , and when he’s removed his boots and stacked them neatly at the side of her bed, she adds; “And the rest of your clothes, Antilles.”

“Yes _ma_ _’am_ ,” Wedge says, in clear approval of that idea. His trousers, shirt and socks are removed and neatly folded on top of his boots; Mon wonders whether if he really is that neat, if the Rebellion drilled it into him, or if he’s doing it for her benefit. She can appreciate the virtue of a lover who keeps things tidy, and it gives her ample time to watch him, take in every expanse of his revealed skin. He’s lean but strong – Mon can see muscle rippling below the surface, felt those arms lift her up and pin her down before. He’s pale, as pale as she is – likely made paler by weeks on the starship. It’s been a long while since they made planetfall. His arms, legs and chest is dusted with dark hair; it’s a good look on him. Her eyes glance down Wedge’s chest, following a slight trail, and she comes to the crease of his hips, his thumbs inside the elastic of his underwear, prepared to lose that too.

“No,” she says, words strong and harsh and almost sounding like an order. “Keep those on. For now.”

Wedge brings his hands back up, nodding. He lifts himself back onto the bed, shuffling back a little so he can settle, and he stretches out. Force, he’s a picture spread out on her bed, his desire for her clearly visible. Mon wants nothing more than to crawl into bed with him, feel the heat of him on her skin, to make him buck and plead and weep against her. She lets herself get carried with the fantasy of it; the memory of previous times, knowing all he can do. It sets her pulse aflutter, a flush to her cheeks, slick starting to pool between her thighs.

“Mon.” Wedge says her name as a whisper, and it jolts her back to reality. He’s now sat on the edge of her bed, legs parted and inviting, underwear straining to contain his arousal. It’s an inviting scene, and she steps forward into it. His hands come up to skim her hips, tugging her a little closer with insistent fingers, and Mon drapes her hands around the back of his neck. She’s got the height on him, the leverage – she’d have to bend down to kiss him, he’d have to lean up and strain to capture her lips, and a thrill rushes through her at that. She’s in control. She teases him, leaning above him, mouth parted just so to invite a kiss, but when he moves up to claim it she draws back.

She’s starting to see what Wedge sees in this game.

He whines in utter frustration, then focuses his hands along her back. Mon thinks he might be looking for the fastening on her dress, but he could just be exploring. His hands skim over her shoulders, across the decorative chains she wears that once signified the office she held. “Ma’am.” His voice lifts up in a question. “Can I undress you?”

“I’m a little disappointed you haven’t already started.”

Wedge groans, and sets to working out how to unfasten the clasps that hold the chains to her dress. He manages those, and lifts them off carefully, setting them in a pool on the bed where Mon will have to move them before things go much further. His hands fondle round the neckline of her dress, then across her breasts to the sides and – Mon was right earlier, he can’t find the fastening. He gives up with a laugh. “Okay, how do you get this dress off?” He leans forward in defeat, laying his head on Mon’s breast. Never one to be not take the best advantage, he swings his arms around her waist to pull her close, and mouths at her breast. The warmth Mon can feel through the fabric is pleasant, though he has completely missed his mark.

“I’ll let you in on a secret,” Mon whispers conspiratorially. “It doesn’t have a fastening.”

Wedge sighs. “Should have known. Over your head, or can you just step out of it?”

“How about I sort myself out, and you just sit there and look pretty?”

Wedge raises his eyebrows – no doubt a dispute on whether he can truly be called pretty or not – but scoots back, lying on the bed again. Mon steps away to give herself the clearance to sort herself out. The dress is best coming off over her head, she knows that from experience, but there’s no elegant way to do it. So best just to get on with it. She pulls it off, and the shakes it out, looking for a hangar – if she leaves it on the floor it’ll crease, and that’s no good. She retrieves the chains that Wedge removed from the bed, slipping them into the drawer of the bedside table to keep them safe. Throughout this process, she’s aware of Wedge’s eyes tracking her across the room, watching her closely, with rapt attention.

Satisfied that things are as they should, Mon removes her underdress as well, folding it and setting it aside. It leaves her in her bra and knickers, which are plain and white and old-fashioned. Mon feels self-conscious about it, but it’s not like she even has nicer things, if she’d planned on this encounter. When she turns back to the bed, Wedge has propped himself up on his elbows, his erection fighting free of his underwear, the head straining at the elastic. It can’t be comfortable, and yet all Wedge seems to care about is her.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathes out, drinking her in.

Mon fights the urge to brush the compliment off; she knows she’s not unattractive, but she spent her finest years in the company of women like Padmé Amidala and Breha Organa, and next to them she was plain. Now, she knows that age and stress have crept in. It doesn’t bother her; she’s never been concerned about such things, but Wedge is a virile young man who could have so much more. “I’m twenty years past that,” she comments, settling on something that feels true. She joins Wedge on the bed, lying down alongside him, turning onto her side so she can look at him properly. She places a hand on his chest. He’s warm to the touch, thrumming with life, and she could envelop herself in him so easily.

“No, no you’re not.” He leans in, tilting his head, inviting a kiss but not taking it. “You know, it’s not just me who thinks that. You’ve got plenty of admirers amongst the corps. People like you. And like this—” He lets his eyes wander over her, taking in every line on her body, the scar on her shoulder from a failed assassination attempt, the wrinkles that age has brought, and it looks like all of it pleases him. “You’re a beautiful woman, ma’am. Not that it matters really. But you are.”

She kisses him.

It’s a harsh, fierce thing, the rising desire that she feels cut loose and unleashed. She turns him over, pinning him to the bed. He’s hard beneath her, his erection jutting against her hip, she can feel him shaking beneath her, his barely contained desire leeching out as he kisses her back with just as much passion. “Stars—” The word falls out his mouth as she takes a breath, a gasp of air that is not enough because she can feel this going to her head, the rush of it. He presses a kiss against her jawline, once and then again, open-mouthed and wet and desperate. His hands go round her back and up to the clasp of her bra. “May I?” he asks.

“Force, yes, Wedge, please—” She captures his mouth in another kiss before she has to find the words for how much she wants this. He unhooks her bra cleanly. He’s done this before, Mon thinks, a brief thought crossing into her mind about what other women Wedge might have taken to bed, but then his hands are sweeping over her back, pushing the bra away and down her shoulders, him only managing to get it half way free before he gets distracted and brings his hands back to her breasts to cup them. His thumbs brush over her nipples and she gasps into his mouth at the contact. “Wedge,” she mumbles against his mouth, as he leans in for another kiss, all the while working at her breasts, pinching and playing in a way that sends delightful sensations through Mon’s entire body. “Wait—”

She’s aware that having her bra trapped between them will get uncomfortable. And Wedge stops instantly on her word, takes stock of the situation and realises the problem. “Oops. Got a little carried away there.”

“No worries.” Mon places a hand on his chest to push herself up, to an angle where she can untangle herself with no worries. In doing so, she shifts so she’s fully seated against his hardness, and he rolls his hips in response, teasing, a prelude of what’s to come. It feels good, even with the layers of clothing that still lie between them. Like this, she can see the appeal of the control that Wedge has given her, and spends a moment wondering what she can make him do. “As you were,” she instructs, when it becomes clear that he is waiting for her orders. “But just your mouth,” she adds, on a whim. It’s a good idea. Wedge squirms beneath her, hands itching, a flush that covers not only his cheeks but most of his upper body.

“You gonna pin me down, make sure I don’t, ma’am?”

“Are you saying you can’t be trusted?”

Wedge bucks against her, thrumming with need. Mon remembers how he’d reacted earlier, when she’d grasped his wrist to tug him in here, and maybe it is a good idea. She drags her fingers across his wrist, watching as his eyes widen, and then she clasps it firm and pulls, so his arm is pinned above his head. He groans.

Yes, this definitely works for her. She pins the other the same way, and then shoots him an expectant look. He sucks in a long slow breath, gazing up at her, trying to keep his composure. “Force,” he says on the exhale, still looking at her like she could provide the entire Galaxy’s salvation.

“I’m waiting.”

That makes him squirm more, moving a little so he can get better access. Mon lifts herself onto her knees to help him out; she’s got better leverage to keep him pinned from this angle anyway. His breath is hot and warm and it tickles, across her breast. He holds still for a moment, teasing, then darts his tongue to flick over her nipple, before his mouth envelops it entirely. He sucks, lathing his tongue over it, working it to a point, all whilst Mon gasps at the sensation. She tries to focus on her fingers around Wedge’s wrists, keeping him there, but he really is very good with his mouth, and the heat pooling in her stomach makes it damn difficult to concentrate.

He kisses all over her left breast, circling her areola. Then he moves upwards and focuses on sucking a love-bite into her skin. He’s considerate; he makes it well below where the collar of her dress falls, and Mon doesn’t really mind him being a mite possessive. One he’s satisfied with that, he moves to lavish the same attention onto her right breast as he did to the left.

Mon flexes her fingers. She hums in consideration – Wedge isn’t going to fight her, she could hold him with one hand. She moves his wrists close enough together so she can do that – it helps that his wrists are slim – and then she has a hand to move and play with.

She can’t quite get to his hair – he’s lying flat on the bed – but she knows she will later, so she skirts past that. His chest is pleasant, but she has another target in mind, so she lets her hand sink lower, across the smooth skin of his stomach, past elastic until she grasps Wedge’s cock.

His teeth graze over her nipple as he shudders with shock. (Mon doesn’t complain; it’s kinda _nice_ , as accidental as it was.) “Gods, ma’am,” he groans, as she flexes her grip and accustoms herself to the heft of him. She gives him a couple of quick strokes, marvelling at the silk-smoothness of his skin. He collapses back into the bed with a sigh. “You know, I was quite happy to satisfy you but if you want to play with me, I won’t complain.”

“Who says we can’t do both?” Mon shifts to sit back a little, so she can watch him better, but there’s something obscuring the view. She puts her fingers inside the elastic of Wedge’s underwear and pulls downwards, clearing them away. She has to shift again to pull them completely off, but they go, joining her bra on the floor. And then he lies naked before her, in all his perfection.

“I’m happy to do whatever you want,” Wedge replies. His cock is curving up towards his stomach, leaving a glossy trail of precum whether it touches; he’s already on edge. It jerks as he looks at her. She’s certain that he does have ideas about what he wants from this, but a large part of that is also satisfying her desires, so it’ll work out.

Mon thinks. Whilst she does that, she returns her hand to Wedge’s cock. She glides her thumb through the precum that’s gathering at the head of his cock, pushing some of it down. With the amount he’s got, it provides ample lubrication for what she’s doing at the moment, a simple slide of the hand, just enough to keep Wedge on edge and distracted whilst she thinks. He whines, looking at her in desperation and she obliges him with a kiss; he slides a hand up into her hair to keep her close. He’s a little sloppier than earlier, breath coming fast and quick and his concentration not quite there, but Mon likes it even more for those quantities.

“Ma’am,” he warns, as she’s still idly thinking about what she’d like. She’s intent on having him inside her, but his mouth was also heaven last time, and she quivers at the thought of what his fingers, quick and nimble and precise might do. “If you’re not careful—” He lets out a shaky breath, and Mon realises that he’s an awful lot closer than she thought he was.

He must really like her, force.

She considers for a minute. “If I let you, will you be able to go again?” She’d like to see him like that, spread over her bed and keening in pleasure, but she also wants him to thrust inside her, and deciding is _hard_.

“Force, Mon, ma’am—” Out of his mouth in this state, the words almost sound the same. “Gods, you’ll be the death of me.” He squirms, with hellish impatience, as Mon slows down her strokes, flicking over his slit to tease him. “Yes, yes, I think so, for you, give me enough time – what do you want me to do, ma’am, tell me and I’ll do it, somehow.”

He’s babbling away, and Mon allows herself a smile. She lies down beside him so she can whisper directly into his ear. “First, I want to make you cum, on this bed for me, because you look so pretty like this, you should see yourself. And then, when you’ve recovered, I want you to fuck me.”

Wedge moans, low in the back of his throat, clearly a big fan of _both_ concepts. “Yes, yes, yes, I can do that for you ma’am, let me and I’ll be so good for you, please ma’am—” He’s begging now, for her to please him, to push him over the edge. He’s responsive to her every touch, eyes fluttering away as he gets closer.

There’s a moment where Mon thinks about withdrawing. Holding him here and seeing how long he could last, on the edge of that precipice, before he’d go crashing over it. But she files that alongside many other ideas she’s had this evening, for another time, and focuses her attentions on Wedge and watching him grow closer and closer to that edge.

He’s bucking into her hand with every stroke, and every change of her grip brings a shudder that courses through him. He’s appreciative in the sounds he makes, but not noisy, which Mon likes. She watches him. He grows stiller, tighter, a sign that Mon takes as evidence that he’s almost there, so she speeds up. She doesn’t really think that she’ll be able to grant him an orgasm as intense as the last one he gave her, but she wants it to be _good._

It works.

He lets go, trying desperately not to but he falls over that edge. “Ma’am, Mon, Ma’am—” babbles from his lips as an incoherent mess. Hot cum coats her hand – and her sheets – as she strokes his through it, until he curls up at her side, spent.

She was right. That was a sight. And he’s not bad looking like this, trying to come back down. “Give me a moment, ma’am,” he whispers in a voice that’s almost collected.

“Shall I go and get a cloth to clean up, or do you want me here?” A hand around her waist answers that question, and Mon wraps her non-sticky hand in Wedge’s hair, stroking it, admiring how soft it is. They stay there, him curled into her breast, for a couple on minutes, until his breathing steadies out.

“You’re good at that,” Wedge says, and Mon hum a little in pleasure. It’s been a while since she gave a man pleasure that way. The basic mechanics remain the same, not something you’d forget in a hurry, but there’s always a little worry that it won’t work. “Give me your hand, I’ll clean up a bit.”

“Are you sure—?” Mon’s experiences with semen over the years have taught her that she doesn’t like the taste, and she’s never met a man willing to clean up his own so freely. “We’ll need a cloth anyway.” There’s mess everywhere, but Mon can hardly talk, because she can feel how wet she is between her thighs. It’ll be her turn to get slick everywhere soon enough.

“I really don’t mind, but if it makes you uncomfortable.” Wedge watches her carefully for any sign that he is upsetting her, but Mon shakes her head and she raises her hand to Wedge’s mouth. He laps at her fingers, cleaning his own cum off, and then sucks her fingers into his mouth two at a time. Which is a sight and a half. Mon wonders what he’d look like with a cock in his mouth. He likes men as well as women, and those of no-assigned gender, is non-discriminating in his choice of partners, as far as she is aware. The way he sucks on her fingers leads her to believe that he’s just as talented as that as he is at everything else.

He cleans her fingers completely, and then Mon slides to find a cloth to mop up the rest. They’ll be making more mess before they are through, so she doesn’t bother doing a thorough job, just enough to make sure there’s nothing unpleasant lingering. Wedge lets her do it without an ounce of protest about how it should be him, which is nice. He wants to look after her, but Mon wants to look after him in exchange.

She lies down back at his side and kisses him, again. He licks at the seam of her mouth, parting her lips and teasing her with his tongue, running it over the roof of her mouth in suggestive manner. “You know,” he murmurs, a hand running over the sharp bone of her hip, fingers dipping into her underwear. “It is going to take me a little while to get it up again, do you have any ideas about what we could do in the mean time?”

He dips his hand lower, past damp curls, and a finger runs along her slit. The sudden intrusion makes her gasp and shudder. As soon as his hand is there, it’s gone, but Mon’s longing is suddenly flaring red hot again. “Seems like you might have some ideas,” she comments, contemplating grabbing his hand and putting it straight back where it was. She doubts he’d have any problems with that – he’d probably like it – but she’d like to think that she’s above such rash acts.

“I mean—” His hand is there again, worrying at the edge of her underwear, the crease of her hip, tantalisingly close but not close enough. “Look, I don’t want to be presumptuous, and I know you’ve expressed that you want me to fuck you, and oh god yes I would like that very much, but I would also like to make you feel intensely good and therefore I think I probably ought to make you come with my hands or with my mouth or however you want ma’am, given that screwing doesn’t always lend itself well to orgasms for women—”

“Wedge.” He stops babbling. “You’re overthinking this.” Though his concern is noted – it takes a lot of self awareness to know that sometimes things don’t work for people, and that cocks are not some magical machine which automatically grant pleasure to everyone who comes in contact with them. “I have quite a lot of faith you’ll make me feel good whatever you do.”

“Yeah well,” he mutters under his breath. “It’s not like I can come untouched when I’m being fucked – okay there was one time – it’s just stupid that other men assume women can!” Mon’s not sure whether the comments are meant for her; his tone is low enough that it could be he thinks she can’t hear. His voice is louder when he speaks next. “I’d really, really like to eat you out, ma’am, if you’d let me?”

“It would please me greatly,” Mon replies.

Wedge throws his head back and groans, the most delightful sound. He rolls her over, pressing her onto her back, placing kisses to the juncture of her neck and then down the line of her breasts, sinking lower. Against her stomach, he places several wet, open mouthed kisses, backed by his tongue flicking across her skin. They tickle slightly, but also make her shudder in anticipation. He works his way downwards, peeling her underwear from her, kissing over the curls of hair, and then finally, finally, his tongue makes contact with her clit.

She moans, almost arching off the bed, because the anticipation has got to be almost too much, and she wants him. “Wedge—” she whines, low in the back of her throat, when he doesn’t immediately continue.

“Just have a little patience, I’m gonna make this really good.” He kisses the inside of her thigh, so close but not close enough, as he slides her underwear all the way off. He takes a moment to survey her, just as enthralled by her as he has been all evening. “Can you scoot up a little? Maybe find a pillow. I want you to be comfortable.”

Mon follows his instruction, moving up the bed and positioning herself so she’s comfortable. Wedge is apparently happy with what he sees, because he snakes up between her legs, pushing her knees apart and settling her thighs over his shoulders. He uses his thumbs to part her labia, dipping into the gathered slick and spreading it everywhere. “Stars, you’re wet,” he says, voice honeyed with appreciation, and then he dives in, licking a long stripe from her centre upwards, drinking her in.

Mon thinks, of course she is, he’s been teasing her for a while now, knowing exactly how to drive her crazy. She _wants_ him, and she has him right now, between her legs exactly where she wants him. He’s working away at her clit, one moment fluttering kisses over it and the next he’s sucking the ball of nerves into his mouth, and it makes her gasp, because he knows her, he knows exactly how she likes this now, what gets a rise out of her, how to send her rushing towards that precipice and then hold her there.

He dips his head again, back towards her core. Mon can feel herself getting even wetter, wetter than she knew was possible anymore. She must be drenching the poor boy in it, but all it does is add to his enthusiasm. Her hands clench at her sides as she tries to keep herself from bucking too much into his mouth, but then she decides she can put them to better use.

She threads them through his hair, keeping his close to her, and he moans. She can feel the vibration hit, and she almost arches of the bed as he presses his tongue flat against her clit. She winds her fingers in his hair and tugs, just a little, to see if he likes that as much as he seemed too before; another moan, that makes him stutter and lose the rhythm he was establishing. He murmurs something against her skin, but it’s so hopelessly muffled that Mon can’t hope to hear it. A comment of some kind. Mon just winds her fingers tighter and says “Get on with it.”

Another groan, another one that Mon can feel before she hears it, and force it feels good. His tongue laps long lines through her slit, teasing against her clit at the top of each stroke, building the pressure higher and higher each time he does so. She’s a moment away from tugging his hair again, holding him at her clit when he settles there himself, and she sighs in blissful relief.

And then there’s a finger at her entrance, pushing in oh so easily, filling her up. It only heightens the way his tongue feels against her clit. He pumps in, twice, testing that she’s open enough – and she is, she’s open and begging for him at this point, so wet that he could slide in with ease right now – and then he withdraws. Mon cries out at the loss of him, but within moments he’s back with two fingers, pushing in slowly as his tongue continues its steady rhythm against her clit.

Mon can feel the rush, pleasure coiled so tightly inside her that she’s right on the edge, staring down the precipice. She wants him. She needs him inside of her right now – he’d do it, if she asked, she knows he would, but this feels so good as well, his fingers crooked against her inner walls, tongue lapping at her like he can’t get enough of the way she tastes.

“Wedge—” She says, but it comes out on a shaky breath, barely audible. She’s breathing hard and fast, barely able to think straight right now. She’s so close.

And then he stops.

She whines. He fights his way up, fingers still inside of her, and asks, in a low voice that is far too together; “Do you want to come now? I could fuck you right now, too, you’re so open and right for it, but you feel amazing right now, clenched around my fingers, you’re shaking, ma’am, it’s _incredible._ ”

“Get. On. With. It.” Mon huffs. She wonders if he knows what he’s doing, whether he wants to be punished for holding her just on that edge and not pushing her over. “Fingers. Tongue. Now,” she adds, in case there was any doubt as to what she wants.

Wedge dives back in, hard and fast. His fingers pump in and out of her, tongue working steadily against her clit, and Mon can hear her breath, whining, moaning, as he builds her all the way back up again and then pushes her over. He uses a hand to hold her hips down as she shakes against him in wave after wave of pleasure. His fingers have stilled but his tongue is still working away, coaxing her through her orgasm, until she goes limp. He slows, lapping slowly, then placing a soft kiss to just above her clit, then her thigh, and waits.

“Fuck—” Mon groans, as she comes back to herself. He really is _far_ too good at that.

“That’s the idea,” Wedge replies. His tone is cheeky. He’s removed himself from where he was, down between her legs, and is now lying against her side. He’s hard again, Mon notices, and is idly stroking himself – with the hand that was just inside her. Which is an image and a half. “That is, if you still want to. It’s okay if you don’t.”

“Wedge.” Mon rolls over, catching his shoulders in a vice grip. “I very much want that. I want you, inside of me, pushing me to the edge again, only without any dirty stunts like that last one, you can’t take me to the edge and _stop_ , it’s just cruel.” No matter that, she reflects, she’d thought about doing the same thing to him earlier this evening. It’s different. He’s supposed to be the one pleasing her.

Next time, she thinks. Next time, she’ll get him back for it, punish him, make him wait on the edge for her approval, her permission.

“Yes ma’am,” Wedge responds. “I can certainly do that.”

“Good,” Mon responds. “Because that’s what I _want_.” She emphasises the last word, and it has the desired effect, making Wedge shake in anticipation.

“Coming right up,” he says. He leans off the bed, looking for something; it turns him all the way over and Mon gets a delightful view of his ass, and she wonders if he’d like her to fuck him, one day, whether that’s something they could do, whether it’s something that she’d enjoy. He searches the pocket of his trousers, and pulls out a wrapped package.

Protection. Of course. Mon had got so caught up – and it’s been so long – that she’d almost forgotten the need. “I’ve had all my shots,” Wedge says, using his teeth to open the packet. “But I see no harm in being careful.” Mon nods. She lets him deal with it, slide it on. The packet is tossed to the side, amongst the various detritus that has gathered over their evening. Mon couldn’t care less about it right now.

“How’d you want me?” Wedge asks, shimmying so he’s lying down beside her. His hand is stroking her hip. “You’d get more control if you were on top, but I don’t know if that’s what you want, or if you want something else…”

“Fuck me,” Mon says, because she’s had enough of games. “Get here and fuck me.” She grabs his upper arm, impatience leaching into her every move, and tugs him on top of her. There’s not a hint of elegance about it, but he follows. He’s a weight on top of her, cock nestled between her legs. It takes him a moment to settle on his elbows, to part her legs properly and line himself up. He’s clearly decided that there’s going to be no more mucking around; he’s not going to try chatting back to her again, he’s just going to screw her.

He jostles a little, then puts all his weight on one side to reach a hand down to line himself up with her properly. Mon considered doing it herself, but it sort of seems best to leave him to it; he’s known what he’s doing in every moment so far, even if he has frustrated the hell out of her. His cockhead is blunt against her entrance, and he pushes in slowly, giving her time to get used to the intrusion.

He fills her nicely, just the right size. When he’s buried all the way in her, he stops for a moment. He looks at her, through the hair that’s falling across his face. Mon reaches a hand up to sweep it away, tuck some of the strands behind his ear. It doesn’t really stay. He’s serious, eyes dark, pupils blown. Mon strokes her fingers across his cheekbone as he leans down to kiss her softly.

It’s a nice kiss, pleasant. His lips fit over hers in a pleasing way. He runs his tongue softly over the seam of her mouth. It’s a wet kiss, made wetter when he sucks her bottom lip between his own. Mon fists her hand into his hair, tugging him closer, dragging out the kiss.

And then he starts to move.

He pulls out, slowly, before thrusting back in. Mon gasps into his mouth. He sets up a steady rhythm, with Mon content to let him lead, set the pace, but she meets him for every thrust. He gives up on trying to kiss her properly, burying his head in her neck and brushing his mouth against her skin. The feeling of it makes Mon’s head arch back. “You feel so good,” Wedge says, half a whisper and half a gasp, words swallowed up between his mouth and her skin.

Mon doesn’t know what to say in response, so she grasps for him, scraping her nails across his back as she draws him close. The angle changes, but all Mon really cares about is the intimacy of having him inside her, feeling the way he moves against her. She isn’t particularly fussed about a second orgasm – the first was incredible enough – though she can feel something stirring, the possibility of it, which she didn’t think likely.

“Stars, Mon, ma’am, I just—” Wedge’s words run out into shaky breaths, and he gives up on the idea of speaking. He fumbles a hand – he’s unsteady now, not as sure as he was earlier, and Mon thinks that he must be close – between them, reaching down and stroking her clit roughly. He lacks the finesse of earlier, but Mon isn’t looking for it. It feels good.

Wedge’s hips pump a little faster, a little less evenly. He stutters, swallowing his moans by pressing kisses against Mon’s neck, shoulder, collarbone. She cradles him close. “Wedge.” She whispers his name into his hair, trying to convey every piece of affection she feels for him, trying to get him to let go. She wants him to, to find his release inside of her. She strokes a hand through the hair, tugging on the ends, rewarded by a groan and an intense thrust into her.

“I’m close,” he says, as if she doesn’t already know.

“Then come,” she tells him.

He whines against her, thrusting quick and shallow, and then he drives all the way into her with a groan. He stills against her, going limp, as his cock pulses inside her.

Mon gives him a moment. He comes back to awareness quickly enough, though he’s sluggish, sucking a kiss onto her neck before pulling out. He’s softening, and he disposes and ties off the condom with the ease of one accustomed to doing it regularly. He tosses it in the direction of the bin, and then curls up back against her.

“Sorry,” he says, hand brushing up her waist to idly graze at the edge of her breast. “I turn absolutely useless after two, I should have warned you. Give me a couple of minutes and I’ll sort you out, promise.”

“Wedge, I am perfectly sated as it is, and I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself even if I wasn’t.”

“But—”

Mon silences him with a kiss. She’s telling the truth. There’s something lingering, but she thinks it will subside. She got what she wanted. And right now, she’s enjoying the feeling of him lying in her arms, sleepy and content. He turns his head against her shoulder. “You were incredible, Wedge.”

His lips graze against her collarbone, his hands softly stroking against her skin. “It’s what you deserve,” he whispers, soft and heartfelt. “You are beautiful and fierce and incredible and you deserve everything, I would give you the _galaxy_ if I could, ma’am—”

“You are quite enough,” she replies, soothing him. She runs a hand over his hair. “You are enough, Wedge, you are all I need.” She doesn’t want the galaxy – she _can_ _’t_ want the galaxy – but she can want Wedge. Who has made her last weeks a little easier, is part of a number of lower officers who brighten Mon’s day, and now lies in her bed. And she knows it’s a bad idea but she wants to let him stay.

It is a bad idea. They risk someone catching him leaving her office in the morning, but they’ve already risked a lot – Mon has no idea who saw him enter her office in the first place. He’s half-asleep in her arms right now, and she can’t bring herself to wake him, make him dress, and then leave. And she would be left with an empty bed.

She has earned one night. They aren’t at high alert. Nowhere near an Imperial threat. If they ever could… it’s now.

She elbows him, pushing him over just enough so she can pull a few of the blankets out from under him. He grumbles, but shortly gets the drift, and he manages find a small sliver of energy to help her before he curls back up under her arms, now under the covers. “So I’m staying?” he asks, already drifting off to sleep.

“Yes. Just sleep.”

“Must be special, then…” he mumbles. His eyes are closed and his breathing is even, and Mon suspects that he’s fallen asleep.

A smile crosses her lips. “You’re a very special man indeed, Wedge Antilles.” She presses a kiss to his forehead, and then turns her attentions to sleep.

.

Mon wakes the next morning to an empty bed. She’s no idea what time it is, but if her comm hasn’t gone off then she isn’t late, and she could do with every moment’s rest she can get.

Then she hears the sound of someone bashing into a wall. It’s immediate, in her quarters, and it startles her. She flicks her light on. Wedge Antilles is standing in her room, trousers halfway up his thighs. Mon sighs.

“Was trying not to wake you, ma’am,” Wedge says. He’d done well to get out of bed without doing so, Mon thinks. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise,” Mon says, because if there’s anything worth waking up for, it’s the sight of a shirtless young man in her quarters. “You’re up early.” She checks her chrono; it’ll be a full hour before she’s supposed to wake up, and she’s an early riser as a rule.

“Double duty, remember?” His punishment. Yes. The thing that had led them here. “And I’ve got to go find something that resembles a uniform.” He buttons his trousers, then reaches down to retrieve his shirt. He pulls it on easily, Mon admiring the line of his arms as they stretch over his head. “I wanted to let you sleep a little longer.”

“Sleep is for women who aren’t the Chancellor,” Mon replies. It’s a sad truth. She’s fully awake now, so she’ll probably get up and dressed shortly and commence her own work.

Wedge gives her a considered look. His boots are on now; he could leave at any moment, but he’s taking a moment to watch her. Mon gestures for him to come closer, and he obliges her.

She wraps a hand in the front of his shirt and pulls him down for a kiss. “Thank you,” she says.

“Anytime.” He leans in to kiss her again, and then straightens up, military in his bearing once again. “I mean that ma’am, just give me a shout if you want me.”

Mon smiles. “I think I might just do that.” His resulting grin is worth an entire world. “Now go, before I get a report writing you up for being late! I don’t want to hear about any more trouble you’ve gotten into, do you hear me?”

“Yes ma’am.” He throws her a salute as he leaves.

Mon falls back into her bed. Her pillows still smell of him. The whole room probably does, and her sheets will need laundering. For now, they’re a nice reminder that she can do things as her own person, not just as the Chancellor.

She reaches for a spare datapad that is kept in her bedside drawer, opening her messages up. There’s a hundred things to be dealt with, all of which demand her attention. She sighs, wondering if she can stay here a little while longer. It’s early. No one would know.

But one doesn’t become the Chancellor of the Alliance to Restore the Republic without giving things up, so Mon drags herself out of bed. A shower will do her good. And then she can get back to work.

And when she needs him, she can ask Wedge for a distraction. He seems willing to oblige, and Mon has plenty of ideas about what she can do with him next time.


End file.
